Growing Again
by JustADreamAway735
Summary: It's a cycle, a very, very long one. But hey, the cycle's result tends to be better than the starting product. K plus for some language


Tonight's the night.

At least that's what you tell yourself.

You adjust the light blue ribbon in your hair, frown, and take it out again, deciding on leaving your hair down. He always said that your hair looked prettier down, and besides, he was never too fond of the color blue. ("Too cool for my tastes. I kinda like red more...or green, like your eyes.") Yes, hair down. Perfect.

You spin around again in front of your full-body mirror, trying to see whether or not there's anything out of place with your outfit. The results are the same as two minutes ago-everything looks fine. But there's no evidence in the pit of your stomach to make you feel that way. And there's some nagging in you that's tugging, tugging, _telling _you that maybe tonight's not such a good idea.

The doorbell rings.

Your heart jumps, and the nagging is smothered by the pinching in your lungs. You quickly smooth out your sweater and make a break for the stairs, because you'd rather lose your scarf than keep him waiting any longer.

* * *

After a few minutes, you grow accustomed to the blindfold he put on you and just walk in the direction he leads you in. Because you've always followed his lead.

The path feels familiar, that much is obvious. The two of you have walked the same patch of forest for so many years that a rut is carved into the ground, engraved even as the ice melts and the rain creates mud. Permanent, just like the two of you.

Soon enough, he pulls back the last spindly branch of Ol' Oakey and comes up behind you, hugging your waist in those sinewy arms you've learned to love oh _so _much these past few months.

"On the count of three," he begins in that deep, breathy murmur of his. "I'm going to take off the blindfold."

"One..." Even under mittens and thick woolen sweaters, you can't help but sigh as his hands deftly slide up your waist and tuck themselves underneath your arms.

"Two..." It's that tingling feeling you like again. You know, the same kind that whenever you exhale, another string climbs up your spine while your stomach threatens to collapse on itself. The pad of his thumb traces your neck as it crawls up to find that thick knot.

"Three..." The curtain falls.

It's all so beautiful.

You can't even believe that something so iridescent could even exist anywhere in the universe. Whether it's the moonbeams dancing over the frozen lake, or the fresh December snow that dusts the pine trees like powdered sugar, or the smell of his cologne that you just _know _he sprayed on his unwashed hoodie not too long ago, your mind knows one thing: you love him. The crimson blanket and pillows that catch the corner of your eye make you nervous, true, but this epiphany, this burst of realization, doesn't deter you in any way. In fact, it makes you that much more determined, because you know that he loves you too.

That's another matter to deal with later, though. Right now, all you focus on is his soft lips and goofy smile, one that laughs on and on as it migrates over to the frozen water. He waltzes along the surface if only to get a laugh from you, and you obviously comply. He looks so cute, better than any Ken doll you've played with when you were five. He isn't your Prince Charming-he's your life.

You can tell that he's feeling more adventurous tonight, because he walks away from the sturdy outskirts to the questionable middle of the pond. The voice in the back of your head is saying "_Umm, this **really **does not seem like a good idea!_", and for once you believe what it's telling you. Your own mouth starts to fall.

He only shrugs off your concerns with that never-ending confidence, arms outstretched to embrace the wafting snowflakes.

When the ends of his fingertips lick the white dust, that's the moment when the words 'frozen' and 'frosted' don't seem all too similar. Is there a difference?

You can't tell the difference. You don't care for the difference. You don't really care for much of anything.

All your attention is on the cracked ice, his long-gone smile, and your screams as he falls into the water.

* * *

The hospital walls are too white. Normally, there's nothing wrong with white. In fact, a lot of things, like sugar, clouds, and sketching paper, are white. Those are all very good, nice things. But sugar gets too sticky, clouds create rain, and paper gets crumpled. And these walls are not nice. They're sterilized, thin, a lie. Instead of keeping all of their scars from every birth and death accumulated over the years, the administrators have covered them up. For sanitizing reasons, you're told by some fifty-something woman sitting behind a desk. There's something so very wrong with this kind of white.

His hair is white now.

You don't register any of the medical mumbo jumbo spilling out of the doctor's mouth, but he doesn't seem to mind. Thank goodness, too. You aren't in the mood to hear that his body going into shock has changed his appearance, or that he experienced a heavy blow to the back of his head on the fall down. All that you can understand is the confusion in your brain; it is him, but yet it isn't.

Finally the doctor shuts up and leaves you be. You wish that he hadn't.

He cracks his eyes open. They're blue now, the very same color that encompasses everything that he isn't. Except, now he is.

"Ugh...where am I?" he mumbles. His jaw clenches, a sharp wince slithers out of his mouth, and he sets his arm back down. Not too strong to move yet, just like the doctor said.

"You're...at the hospital," you reply to him. You want to cry, he's never looked so vulnerable. You gently trace the bandages stuck to his head.

It's your turn to take care of him.

He nestles in his bed a bit and inclines his head away from you, and you break that much more. "Who are you anyways?"

That burns you. A sigh, and the tears you were tempted to unleash are held back. Your hand falls away from the head wraps along with the last shattered piece of your heart. "My name is Rapunzel," you say. "I'm here to help."

* * *

The unfair side of you says that he's not worth it anymore. He's changed, he's not the person you used to know, although the two halves share nearly-identical features.

He doesn't want your help, he told you one day. He apparently liked this new attitude of his. You don't like it at _all_.

His eyes, his hair, even his hoodie are all wrong. He's the negative copy of his other developed, picturesque self. He no longer wants to spend Sunday mornings at the park, is too cool to scourge yard sales or antique stores for any remnant of adventure. He's a lone wolf.

But that's only because he can't remember yet. That's what you keep telling yourself, anyways.

He'll come to his senses one day. And you'll be there waiting.

* * *

It's been nearly a year, and you feel like you've almost, _almost _wore him down. Just a tiny bit. Now he's not giving you the cold shoulder as much, and on some days he actually texts you first. But he's still wary of you. Oh well, it's not like you were his girlfriend or anything.

He's a shard of what he was, because the part of him that you held dear to is still submerged in his frozen subconscious. Despite what your mother, your friends, and your pets tell you, you're still holding on. You only need to melt him a little bit more.

* * *

You decide that the one thing that's new about him that you like is his smile. It's nothing like freshly fallen snow, but maybe that's what you like the most. It's imperfect, crooked.

You like it even better when he decides to show it specifically to you.

* * *

It feels like you are starting over again, except this time you're in the lead.

It's weird, because he's an unconscious mutt product of his snarky lone wolf and his jokester side that's semi-sleeping in the back of his head.

These days, he'll call you to ask if you want to hang out. You say yes, of course...but you also have a little bit of fun too. For instance, the two of you were supposed to meet at 6:00 at the park, and you just so happened to get there at 6:05, right in time to see him squirming around on a bench. It's too much fun to tease him to pass this up.

Sometimes he looks at you like Before; however, some part of you is glad that right now is After.

You're used to his icy blues and snowy white mop. For some reason, you feel like it suits him a tiny bit more than his used-to-be chocolate brown everythings.

* * *

He's cracked. And he's scared.

You're way past teasing him; you've matured, and so has he. Besides, there are bigger problems to deal with.

"Im so sorry." His face is buried in his hands, wiping his whispers upon his palms. "Rapunzel...I'm trying to remember-_really_ _**trying**_-but I just, I just can't. I can feel myself hearing things in my head that I know were in the past, but nothing is familiar. At all. It's like I'm trying to recall eighteen years of life that don't even belong to me! I-"

You hush him, tell him that everything's alright. You guys will create more memories together.

* * *

The unfair side of you admits that perhaps things aren't as bad. Every time the two of you are together is like a lesson of your relationship, only in reverse. You are the one who takes him to places you've been. You are the one who takes his hand and flies through the crowd to find out what's next. You are the teacher, and he is the student.

It feels exhilarating.

And, not to toot your own horn, you're a pretty damn good teacher too. He's making progress, and after each date you can see something unlock inside of his eyes.

And, not to toot his horn, he's a pretty damn good student.

* * *

You didn't see him yesterday, but he makes it up with a swift kiss on your lips. They're as familiar to you as a McDonald's is to an American.

He's gentle, loving, caressing, adoring, and a million and three other adjectives that you can't care to say. Is starry a good word to use? Yeah, you can believe that it is. The French have your gratitude for being the ones to perfect the art of kissing and passion. Who cares that they've lost a bunch of wars? They did things right where it matters, and that's in the here and now.

He pulls away. He stares straight into your eyes, thumbs his fingers over the back of your neck, and you bless the existence of two particular words.

"I remember."

* * *

Tonight's the night.

It's springtime, and you both agree to stay away from a certain section of the park.

You confidently brush through your hair and decide on leaving it down because you think it looks better that way. But, right as you admire yourself in the full-body mirror, you add on a certain turquoise ring. Turquoise is, after all, the best mixture of blue and green.

The doorbell rings, and you walk out of your room, making sure that you have everything with you. There's no rush.

His appearance makes you smile; goofy grin, unkempt hair, and cool, confident gaze make him the right kind of blend, just like your ring.

This time, you drive him down an hour away to go to the beach, and you don't even care that you're definitely going to break curfew tonight.

The beach is all yours, sparkling underneath the full moon and waves crashing softly and receding on the powdery sand. It's an easy tempo, the very same in which your hearts beat. He encircles you, hugging your waist in the arms that have gone through so much with you this past year and few months. He smiles into your neck, whispering, "Much better than going to the pond."

"I agree," you say. "Everything here moves. It's warm...just like you."

"Mmmm." A kiss on your cheek. "I love you Rapunzel."

A kiss on his cheek. "I love you too, Jack."

* * *

As you look back, you're more than certain that the cycle's result is much better than the starting product.

* * *

_A/N: Okay, like what is thisssss? Yeah, I have no idea either._

_A few issues of business:_

_1. Y'all need to watch the 'Daughter of Guardians' trailer by MisticalSeaMermaid on YouTube. It. Is. Freaking. Amazing. Totally new headcanon right here._

_2. We should create a Jackunzel playlist! All the songs I can think of that make me think of one of my OTP's include, but are not restricted to:_

_-Why Don't You Love Me _

_-I'm a Pirate, You're a Princess_

_-Kiss Me Slowly_

_-Lightning by Alex Goot_

_-One More Night_

_-We're Never Ever Getting Back Together_

_-Sun and Moon (Miss Saigon)_

_-Past the Point of No Return_

_-You and I Tonight_

_-Drop in the Ocean_

_-La La_

_-Intoxicated_

_-I Never Told You _

_-Kiss by TC and Sam Kang_

_-Handle With Care by JR Aquino_

_...and that's all I got. Anybody willing to add on to this?_

_3. Okay, last thing. As you probably have guessed, I'm back in school. I know, most of you probably won't care, but to those who do, that means less and less updates. And considering that I really have to focus on college soon, that means everything I just said multiplied by two. I'm really sorry guys, but I feel like I have to do the right thing here: go on hiatus. _

_Now, that doesn't mean it's anything permanent; I may or may not have one or two one-shot updates in the next few months. Also, I'm definitely going to have enough time for updates when I'm on holiday...which is in November. All this means is that I'm going to be offline for a little while. I just thought I should let you guys know, just so that nobody is left hanging or wondering why there haven't been any posts from me. But don't worry, whenever I have time or when my holidays are here, I'll be sure to have an influx of awesome updates just for all of you. And who knows, maybe if there's a challenge or something that really **really **inspires me, you can be sure to see me here._

_Bleh, now I'm blathering. _

_There's also this one quote I saw in one story's review, and it really got me thinking:_

_"I can't call myself an author if all I do is put down words."_

_And now, because of that, I'll be sure to give my lovely followers more than just words on a screen._

_You guys are truly amazing. Don't ever forget that._

_See you around after this small hiatus_

_-(insert real name here)_


End file.
